


Treading Water in Shallow Hearts

by orphan_account



Series: Life on the Livewire [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Grief, Intoxication, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Not Britpicked, Reference to Torture, Spy Stiles, Trust Issues, Violence, britishisms, erection loss, yank-wank needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9069100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter gave him the most shit eating grin that ate up half his face, “I knew it. Under all that gun wielding and drug taking, you do have a heart.”One year on and Stiles is given an unpleasant reminder of his past indiscretions.He opens the door to a plethora of bad decisions that just maybe aren't actually that bad after all...?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RebaK1tten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebaK1tten/gifts).



> This is the sequel to _Prologue: Deep Water in Dark Eyes_ \- my steter secret santa gift to rebak1tten. Here lies the bulk of the plot where Stiles tries to work out how much Peter can be in his life. 
> 
> There is likely to be more on screen violence in this one, but I'll keep the tags updated & will put warnings at the bottom of each chapter. If there is anything you'd like me to tag, please do leave a comment & I'll do it asap. (I've put graphic descriptions of violence just in case, but thus far there isn't any). 
> 
> I hope you all like it! I'm a little in love with this verse & I hope you all enjoy it too. Thank you to everyone who came out to support the prologue, it means a million.
> 
> Warnings (spoilers) at the end.

## One Year, Twelve Deaths, Thirty Six Jobs, Five Bullet Wounds, And Two Hundred And Sixty Three Hangovers Later.

 

Stiles had already been waiting an hour for his connecting flight, and was not enjoying the experience whatsoever. For someone who spent so much time on planes, you would think he would had picked up at least a few tricks along the way to pass the time. Unfortunately he had only learnt that airports were boring, soulless places. Spending money on half cold food you don’t want is the only available form of entertainment. Stiles might have enjoyed flying much more if he had been able to wrack up air miles, but he didn’t travel on his three primary passports (American, Russian and Canadian) very often, in an attempt to keep his known movements down. Instead he was constantly using burner passports, from increasingly ridiculous places  

 

He flicked open the one he was using that day and saw that he was originally from Laos. His first name was Khama, which meant gold in Lao, but had lived in China for most of his life. He moved when his French mother had separated from his Australian father, who currently owned a private bank in Vientiane. “Thank fuck,” he grunted, because he was able to speak Mandarin and Cantonese Chinese, but could barely sound out the words in the Lao script. Luckily airports were lazy about these things, and would offer anyone from East Asia (other than Japan) a Chinese translator if needed.  

 

It was a beautiful looking language though, lots of curled lines and small details. If he forced himself through yet another language course, Stiles would reward himself with another tattoo. Somewhere on his back, he’d decide where when he knew what he wanted to say.  

 

Another four hours of meandering in Minsk national airport was on the cards however. That’s what he got when he let the American government chart his flight plans. They liked to feel involved now and again, make themselves feel more comfortable with the idea that he was _their_ asset and not Russia’s. Stiles didn’t really care as long as it didn’t mess with his cover - which it nearly always did. But it wasn’t like Russia wasn’t a grabby hand little shit itself that constantly wanted access to more than he was willing to give them. So the push and pull of intervening countries with more fire power to nuke halfway around the earth was nothing new to Stiles.

 

If he ever wanted to write a book about his life he would probably dedicate a whole chapter as to why getting shafted by the Russian government was always colder, darker, and more uncomfortable than by the American government. But at least the Russians knew when they were fucking you over and could be honest about it.  

 

Four hours wasn’t the worst wait however, and he wandered into the nearest dutyfree to find some newspapers to read. Stiles liked crosswords for a hundred different reasons, but mostly because they were familiar. After Bletchley park became internationally recognised, the Kremlin had become obsessed with codes. All agents were force fed hours and hours of cross words. Stiles had at one point completed every single crossword from 2003 (when he had started his training) back to February 15, 1942 when The New York Times Sunday edition had started printing them. They made for fantastic codes now for other agents to understand, a date and position, was all he needed to convey a message. Reading the new crosswords just updated the list of words he could ever use. His face was a picture of joy when two years ago a crossword had the answer “traitor” in it. Finally making 2007, 10 down the missing link to a desperately needed message he’d have to rely on again and again.  

 

Stiles was perusing the sweets section when he heard some young women (probably his age) loudly discussing their book choices. Stiles would love to just switch off from the background noise, but it was a habit of the trade. Constantly listening and making assumptions of the veracity of the conversations around him. Did that person use enough contractions for candid speech? Did they fail to overlap each other in a way that genuine friends would? Did their hand gestures match their intent or was is just added for effect?

 

“It’s his best yet-”

 

“I listened to the audiobook, but I think I’ll buy the hardcopy too-”

 

“I knew you’d love it-”

 

“I might get this one. I love that they used the balcony scene for the front cover-”

 

“I _loved_ the balcony scene! When he gets up on the wall, I felt _my_ heart racing-”

 

Alarm bells ringing, Stiles spun around and watched the two girls walk over to the counter to buy their merchandise. Their conversation had already moved on to when ‘their mate Dan’ had climbed up on some scaffolding for a laugh. All the same, something about the conversation had the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

 

Stiles turned back to the rack of books they had been looking at, and spied the “No. 5 Must Read” looking at him. On the front cover was a stylised drawing of a man, scaling the wall of a building, caught between two balconies. His pant leg was ripped, and beneath it you could see a bloodied bandage. The man’s face was obscured by a deep hood, but the lips visible were pulled into a grin all the same. Two long knives hung on a belt around the figure’s waist, and a giant rifle was strapped to the guy’s back.

 

“Nightfall: Balancing Act. The third installment of the award winning thriller featuring Rylan Fokx. Assassin, casanova, internationally most wanted.” Stiles felt his hands wobble a bit when he picked up the book, it was too fucking surreal for him to take in. His heart leapt up in his throat when he read the spine, “by Peter Hale.”

 

“That fucking arsehole!”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles bought the first flight he could to America, annoyed that his current alias didn’t have easy clearance to the states. Stiles had to trudge up (and therefore completely burn) a backup identity he had the papers for. Alex McKenzi was a 23 year old University student from London who had spoken at a few conferences on the concept of radical self in the age of technology. He had been involved in a number of government think tanks in London, including the international security board. Stiles liked the skin, wearing it a few times on jobs and had really enjoyed the life long membership Alex had to his University student union. Going back to the states directly after completing a job for the CIA in Belarus would make it too dangerous to keep it alive however. There was no way he could keep hold of the alias after passing through customs. He had other British identities he could use. He had just _liked_ this one.  

 

“This why you need to stop being so fucking sentimental.” Stiles grumbled to himself as he found his first class seat on the plane, and got ready for the long flight ahead.

 

By the time he was passing over USA airspace he had read the whole book twice, and was even more angry. The story seemed to pick up just after whatever the prequel was, and since this was the third instalment, there was a lot that Stiles was missing. But that didn’t matter enough that he couldn’t follow the story. The writing was good, immersive even. Stiles had found himself invested in the narrative. Forgetting himself entirely when reading about the protagonist being tortured in a military base.  

 

“The guy who wrote this has obviously never been tortured.” He said as he read about Fokx staying silent through having two of his fingernails removed, “that hurts like a bitch. And there’s no point in staying quiet, as long as you keep the information to yourself.”

 

He remembered that of course the author hadn’t be tortured, as he’d _met_ Peter Hale, and he was just a normal fucking guy who wrote this stuff on the weekend. That was _the point_. He redoubled his efforts to get to the apparent ‘balcony’ scene.

 

It was awful. It made him blush at how crass ‘he’ was when flirting with the woman on the balcony which was presumably how Peter had seen Stiles interactions with him. (Although, even though the night was hazy, Stiles was 99% certain he hadn’t suggested that he could ‘give her more orgasms than she could count’). At least the sex scene was amazing. Peter had an eye for porn, and Stiles felt himself get an erection as he read about his doppleganger fuck a woman until she screamed the house down. It had to at least say _something_ for his abilities.  (He kindly ignores the fact that in the real hook up Stiles had failed to even maintain an erection on their first round. And had subsequently relied on hundreds of dollars worth of amphetamines to get him there).

 

In the book, Fokx was actually there to murder the woman’s husband, which he did from the bedside when the man came in the next morning. It was rather strange to read Fokx clean up the house and stash the body, all while his bedmate - the mark’s wife -  was asleep. It all rang a little _too close_ to what had happened at Peter’s. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he reminded himself, “I just helped keep Peter’s life free of me.”

 

Peter had gone and fucked that up in the end of course, writing about Stiles in a way that felt dangerously close to compromising his cover. “What if I missed something… What if he wasn’t a civilian? No, too difficult to fake a series of books being published over a decade.” At the very least, the book had cemented Peter’s identity as a real one, but it didn’t stop him from being a threat to Stiles’ identity.

 

Stiles knew he was going to have to pick up a pack on the other side that included guns. His McKenzi identity didn’t have the right paperwork to bring weapons onto a plane, so he had had to leave his two pistols back in Minsk. But he’d done the transatlantic push and pull enough times that he knew a drop locker for agents close to San Diego airport. It’d be good to use it, as the CIA was currently expecting him on a flight to Kerala, and instead he was on home soil. It would keep them in the loop in some way. They weren’t going to like it. But Stiles had bigger things to worry about. Like whether he was going home to the states to murder Peter Hale.

  


* * *

 

Stiles gave his apartment one last look over. It looked a bit rough around the edges, thanks to his rush job of cleaning the last time he’d been there. His cupboards were always empty from food, but he didn’t like the fact that he had left so many of the doors ajar. As if he would be back any minute to close them.

 

As he walked through his bedroom he could see the badly secured plug socket he’d repaired in a daze. It hadn’t really mattered, it was empty, but it looked unkempt. Stiles opened his bedroom cupboard and found the small urn at the back, wrapped in green tissue paper and secured in a shoe box.

 

These weren’t his mother’s ashes, he reminded himself, as his hands wobbled slightly as the touched the cool ceramic surface. They were just a way for Stiles to remember her, they were just a symbol. It would be awkward taking them with him, as he’d need to carry them with him until he returned to a safe house he could trust. But since he would be burning this place after tonight, he placed them in the bag all the same.

 

It hurt a little to look around. There was no point even pretending he was going to be able to salvage the art, and no point keeping some of his favourite furniture pieces. That’s not how you let a place go. But Stiles resented what was happening all the same, it was a hard lesson to learn: the more you like something, the harder it was to give it up.

 

“I guess that’s how you felt about dad.” Stiles said, patting the box in his bag. Stiles grabbed some of the passports he had in a kitchen cupboard, he'd check what they were later. He also hunted down his lock box of Nigerian bank notes that he’d shoved in there the first night he’d ever slept there. It’d be useful, dated cash always went farther than new money in Africa, less likely it was forged. And then he was standing outside Peter Hale’s apartment, gun loaded but secured to his shin.  

 

Stiles had opted for a tight black turtleneck jumper, on top of his boot cut high waisted dress pants. It was the sort of thing that Alex McKenzi - gay, artistic, philosophy student - would wear, and it seemed a shame to change. He knocked.

 

“Wow, you were the last person I expected to see tonight.”

 

Peter looked more handsome than Stiles remembered. Probably due to the fact that the man was unconscious through most of Stiles’ sober memories, and warped through the eyes of morphine in all those prior. He was in a tank top and jogging trousers. A light glow on his skin said that he was probably in the middle of some form of routine. Stiles had to physically stop himself from remembering the feel of those arms holding him up against a wall while the older man fucked him.

 

“But you expected me to turn up at some point.”

 

Stiles’ voice was a caustic mix of anger, cold fury, and flirtation. He couldn’t really help that last one, playing off the man’s tone naturally, but it didn’t stop his utter frustration at what the man had done.

 

“Well, I was hoping I might see you around again.”

 

Stiles needed to get out of the hallway. Whether he shot the man, or merely interrogated him, he didn’t want witnesses. If it wasn’t for the fact that fucking Cora and _bluebelle_ was playing on his mind, he might have taken his gun out and just straight up threatened the man. But for now he wanted to keep Peter’s twee little life intact.

 

“I read your book.”

 

“Oh… Ah..”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Did you like it?”

 

“Well, the cover art really caught my eye.”

 

“This is a little embarrassing, I’ve never had to talk to someone I’ve based a character on before.”

 

Stiles thought of the way Peter had described Fokx’s fucking style as energetic as it was passionate and tried not to blush himself. “I think if we’re going to finish this conversation, I’d rather do it behind a closed door.”

 

Peter who had been leaning on the door jamb - the piece of shit just knowing how to show off every damn inch of his well built torso - instantly took a step back. His eyebrows jumping up in pleasant surprise.

 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

 

Stiles stormed past him, trying not to touch the man, and attempting to keep his plan in mind. His plan of: confront Peter and then make a decision on what to do next. A pretty weak fucking plan, one that he would never dare hold by on a job. But this wasn’t really a job, it was personal. As personal as it got for Stiles anyway. Some guy he fucked thought he was a bloody assassin, and now he had to go tie up some more loose ends.

 

He stopped short when he got to the couch. It had taken him an hour to get the blood out of it, but he was more caught by the memory of Peter bending him over and fucking him on it. That was missing in the book, Fokx taking his lady friend straight to her bedroom.

 

“Thinking of good times?” Peter asked with a charismatic lilt to his voice, he was such a smug fucking bastard. He held out a glass of water to Stiles, which he took, but as he hadn’t watched Peter pour it, he restrained from actually drinking it.

 

With more confidence than he had about what would happened next, he put the glass down on the end table and sat exactly where they had fucked all that time ago. His bag was by his feet, and he leveled Peter a steady glare. Peter just smiled, moving to sit on the yoga mat he had spread out the floor, and chugged the better half of the glass of water he had fetched for himself.

 

“It was rude of you to write what you did.”

 

“I can see that, although it was pretty rude of you to slip out that morning.”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, and regretted not leaving a note again. They always hate you when you don’t leave a note. It was his stupid fucking sentimentalities and _fucking bluebelle_ that has him scarpering with his tail between his legs.

 

“Sex etiquette aside, it was poor taste for you to portray me in such a way.”

 

“In what way? From what I remember, it didn’t play out much differently.”

 

Stiles gave him a flat look, “I don’t remember shooting your husband the next day.”

 

Peter gave him a grin, “Funny, I don’t remember much at all the next day.”

 

Stiles heart rate sped up a little bit, but he’d been in tighter spots than this without losing his cool. Peter had - voluntarily - taken a decidedly large amount of drugs that night, which easily explained his memory loss. All the same Stiles counted the steps it would take to retrieve his gun, cock the safety, and shoot Peter. The man was a picture of relaxation on his mat however. ‘You’re fine; this is fine’ Stiles told himself.

 

“Your drug come down isn’t really my problem,” Stiles snapped. Trying to push jilted-past-fling, and not on-edge-murderer.

 

“I don’t know, maybe if you’d left a note.”

 

“This is ridiculous, you can’t leverage that against what you’ve done. You made me out to be some kind of-” killer, fuck up, heartless cad, none of those were new descriptions for him, “-criminal.” Stiles’ voice was a little bit on edge, and he couldn’t quite work out if he’d committed to the act too well, or if his feelings were really hurt.

 

“Tyler, I am sorry if I made you feel that way. I never intended you to read it, it was simply inspiration. But you’ve got to admit, you came through my life like a fucking hurricane. Shit, I didn’t even have to make up you scaling the building wall. And I know for a fact you had three guns in your bedroom drawer… Sometimes I wonder if I was lucky I woke up at all the next day.”

 

That was a horribly accurate thing for Peter to say. And it was so normal. Normal real person Peter Hale felt like he had a brush with death the night Stiles entered his life, and subsequently had had enough whiplash that he had written it in his stupid little book. Stiles felt a bit sick, and started making exit plans. He never should have come here.

 

“Fuck you, Peter.”

 

“Come on now. It’s not that bad. What are you anyway? Army? Some kind of mercenary?” Stiles could hear from Peter’s voice that he was flirting, that the idea that Stiles was some kind of killer was exciting to him. It did nothing but make Stiles feel more ill. All this was doing was setting Peter up to make some guesses that would force Stiles to tie up the situation in a more _final_ manner.

 

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

 

The next few seconds went a little bit too quickly. Stiles went to stand. Peter surprised him with some quick reflexes and quickly jumped up and went to grab his arm. Stiles grabbed his gun on impulse and had it flush to Peter’s chest in seconds, causing Peter to stumble backwards, tripping on Stiles’ bag. Which caused it to fall open, where the urn that held his mother’s ashes came skidding out.

 

Peter should have been looking at the gun, he was an idiot for not looking at the gun that was pointing at him. Stiles had known that long before any of his training started: if there’s a gun pointing at you, you should probably fucking watch it. Instead however, Peter was looking at the urn.

 

“Is that..?”

 

“Don’t-” Stiles’ voice was wrecked, this was all such a fucking mess. He almost couldn’t believe what was happening, how the fuck he had even got here.

 

“Tyler, please stop pointing a gun at me. I’m sorry I made you jump.”

 

“Go fuck yourself.” He was fucking screwed, Stiles was pointing a gun at Peter. Peter had seen him point a gun at him now. Stiles had now idea how either of them were going to exit this situation intact.

 

“Tyler, why do you have an urn in your bag?”

 

Stiles’ hand wobbled a little, and he lowered the gun.

 

“It’s my mother’s.”

 

“...Fuck.”

 

Stiles didn’t know if he was lying. Was he lying about his dead mother to get out of this situation? It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d done. Maybe he could blame the whole thing on some kind of psychotic break from having to cremate his mother’s body. She wasn’t in there though. Stiles didn’t have his mother’s body. Stiles didn’t know where his mother’s body was. Stiles didn’t know where she was… Maybe he was having a break down.

 

“Yeah.” Stiles sat down on the sofa again, and put the gun in the bag, there was no point using it now. He hadn’t when it made most sense, and now it was just an awkward prop.

 

Peter had reached out and picked up the urn from where it had skidded half under the coffee table. Stiles flinched as the man touched it, but allowed Peter to pick it up and place it ontop of the wooden surface. It stood out amongst the detritus of photograph magazines, a half empty cup of tea, and six embroidered coasters. _Something here is not like the others._

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Stiles flicked his eyes at Peter from where he was staring at the urn. It was a bit ridiculous that Peter was apologising to _him,_ since he was the one who had just been threatening to shoot the guy.

 

“What for?” Stiles croaked out.

 

“I was… I was treating this all a bit like a game. I didn’t think you were dealing with something like this… It was poor taste.”

 

Stiles nodded a little, as if that was a decent enough answer.

 

“Was I right?”

 

“About?”

 

“You, being army?”

 

Stiles shook his head, before deciding to just give over, “marine. I’ve been on tour. That was why I was gone.”

 

Peter nodded, Stiles knew that it was probably satisfying for him. To finally solve the puzzle that was ‘Tyler the crazy neighbour’.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I don’t really like talking about work.”

 

“No, I meant your…” He gestured slightly to the urn again.

 

“Oh… No. No thank you.”

 

Peter nodded, standing awkwardly next to the coffee table, as if he was the interloper in the apartment.

 

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Stiles finally asked, his brain feeling slow. This was probably how regular people felt all the time. Sitting purely in the moment, directing their thoughts and reactions to how they perceived things to be. Not running off years of training, back up plans, narcotics. It felt terrifying.

 

“Yeah, I’ll grab them… If I let you on the balcony, you promise you’re not gonna’ start abseiling off it?”

 

Peter gave him a grin, and Stiles answered it, grateful for the reprieve. “That depends if I see a hot stranger in the flat below this time.”

 

They were subdued on the balcony, the strange limbo of adrenalin cooling down in their veins. Fuck knows what Peter was thinking, since he was now sharing cigarettes with a man who minutes before had been pointing a gun at him. _Maybe he’s the one with the death wish._ But Stiles wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to feel, was he suddenly mourning his mother’s death? As a cover story? Was he faking this, or was he tapping into some real emotion merely to exploit the situation? Was he even exploiting the situation? Right that moment he just felt a bit small and empty… And tired.

 

“When are you heading out?”

 

“In a few days.” That was wrong, he should have said tonight. He had planned to liquidate the apartment that night, and never step foot in it again.

 

“Do you want to watch Dog Soldiers? It’s on sky movies in twenty minutes.”

 

Stiles creased his eyebrows in confusion, a half cocked grin on his face.

 

“What is with you and wolves?” he asked, incredulous.

 

Peter looked a bit shocked, but not completely surprised. “How do you know I have a thing for wolves?”

 

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention Peter’s desktop background, but Stiles stopped himself. He knew it would be stupid to let on about his snooping.

 

“You have…” Stiles hesitated “There’s a photo of you on your desk at a wolf sanctuary.”

 

Peter had a weird expression on his face and Stiles could tell that he was a bit uncomfortable. Probably because that photograph contained a photo of his niece, and Stiles was a literal fucking headcase. Peter would probably have preferred to keep the two things as separate as possible. But he smiled as well. “I wouldn’t really call that a _thing._ And when did you see that?”

 

“Oh, in the morning I, er-” ransacked your house trying to investigate whether you were a real person or an alias “-I was going to leave a note, and was looking for some paper. And I saw it.”

 

Peter gave him the most shit eating grin that ate up half his face, “I _knew_ it. Under all that gun wielding and drug taking, you _do_ have a heart.”

 

“Fuck off,” Stiles said, this time with a smile, and knocked his hip into Peter’s all the same.

 

“So, how about them dog soldiers?”

 

It was a bad idea. It would complicate things. Complicate things that were already so complicated that even Stiles’ old code breaker tutor wouldn’t be able to figure it out. It would be better for everyone if he just left.

 

“Yeah, okay. But you have to explain the wolf thing.”

* * *

  


They watched all of Dog Soldiers, and then An American Werewolf in London. But then Stiles said enough with wolves, and found some French art film on film4 that was mostly nudity and cigarettes. And Peter laughed at him and told him it was all fucking pretentious bullshit, but by the seventh bathing scene they were kissing.

 

This time Peter tasted like red wine and nicotine, which was better than whatever he tasted like last time because Stiles could remember it. And when Peter gently ghosted his hand up Stiles’ spine, he could feel every single little touch. They didn’t even take their clothes off, which added to the enclosed feel of Stiles lying on the couch - his back to the cushions - and Peter crowding him in. Holding his face so he could kiss Stiles as deeply and slowly as he liked.

 

At some point Stiles fell asleep, his hips still gyrating in slow circles of eight against Peter’s. Not even trying to get off, just keeping them in a steady little moment of _feeling_ one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings (spoilers).
> 
> Grief, what can be seen as low grade panic attacks. Stiles is considering murdering Peter, and pulls a gun on him. No one is hurt. Reference to torture.
> 
> \----------
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As always, kudos & comments are the life blood of writing. Thanks to everyone's amazing support on my fics, I've been writing more of late than ever before. I hope I keep churning out great content for you! Please do tell me what you think <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're more scared of staying the night than bullet wounds and explosions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is posted under the title of Peter appreciation week Tuesday theme: AUs.  
> What's more AU-esque than no werewolves, spies, espionage & book writing. 
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings (spoilers) at the end.

##  When hours feel like centuries, your kisses keep me young.

 

Stiles was scared. He had woken up in the pale barely lit sky of the early morning, and there was a heavy weight against his back. At some point he must have flipped over, and now Peter had him tucked closely against his body. He wasn’t scared because he didn’t know all that however, he was (painfully) sober and could remember everything from the night before. 

 

No, Stiles was scared because he was making some seriously bad decisions. Not the “I’m going to self medicate instead of getting my wound look at” kind of decision. Not even a “I heard there was a bomb planted in this building, let’s check it out” kind of recklessness. That was all normal. The stupid, out of the range of daily life kinda’ of normal for him. There was a reason why most spies were young, and every year you had in the field was like a badge of honour. He was sticking to the plan when he was making those decisions.

 

Here he was in new territory. Just throwing his caution to the wind and compromising himself - and Peter - with every minute he spent with the man.

 

He also really needed to piss.

 

Stiles tried to slide out from Peter’s arm gently, but the man just gripped him tighter, “stop trying to slip out in the mornings.” The man grumbled into the nape of his neck.

 

Stiles couldn’t help the smile that snuck onto his face, “I’m mostly trying not to piss on your couch.”

 

Peter snorted. “Oh, well, it’s already had most of your body fluids on it.” But relinquished his hold all the same. 

 

Stiles poked around a bit in the bathroom when he was in there, seeing if anything had changed. There was a fresh towel set in the cupboard replacing the rattier ones that were there before. Peter had some antibiotics in his cupboard now, and Stiles wondered what they were for. (He could always check Peter's medical records... No, too invasive). The room was surprisingly tidy seeing how Peter had no idea he'd have guests.

 

When he returned Peter had stripped off his tank, and was in the kitchen slicing up some salad vegetables. He ate a chunk of radish and offered one to Stiles.

 

"Ooo, my favourite." Stiles munched on the peppery veg.

 

"How do you feel about smoked salmon on cream cheese bagels?" Peter asked, pointing to the oven grill that had two bagels toasting under the flame. (Not atypical breakfast food. Maybe Peter lived in New York, or has Jewish family. Nothing too surprising.)

 

"Sounds great. Anything I can do?"

 

"You know how to make filter coffee?"

 

"It's my life blood."

 

"Second cupboard from the fridge."

 

Peter had an English style kettle, that you heat on the stove, which Stiles considered using. If only to see how well used it is. (Has Peter spent time in Europe?) but opted for the coffee machine with a hot water bank.

 

It was nice, making breakfast with someone. Chattering as they do their tasks. It reminded him of when he used to make breakfast for his father in the mornings.

 

When they ate it was with their fingers, sticky cream cheese slathered over skin. The salmon was fresh, and the salty smoked flavour cloyed at his tongue. Gratifying and luxurious. Stiles wondered how Peter keeps up his physique chowing down on fatty cheeses and carbs.

 

"How often do you work out?" Stiles asked, nodding over to where the yoga mat was still out.

 

Peter shrugged with a grin, "most nights. Helps me sleep. I run before lunch each day, helps combat the writers block."

 

"Oops, here we are. Talking about that bastard book again."

 

"You respect the book. It paid for the salmon you're eating."

 

"Good, I deserve some royalties." Stiles sticks out his tongue at him, and Peter picks up some sweet corn from their salad bowl, and pops it on his tongue.

 

Stiles munched on that too, enjoying its sweet juicy taste.

 

"I should probably apologise, right?" Peter asked, not looking particularly trite.

 

"Only if you mean it."

 

"Well, it got you back through my door. So I'm not very sorry."

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, "are you going to commit libel every time you want me back here?"

 

"Depends, you gonna' give me some other way of contacting you?"

 

Stiles eyes must have had something akin to panic in them, because Peter rolled his. Smiling a little to himself in a way that Stiles would not describe as happy, and picked up some more salmon.

 

"I guess libel it is then."

 

"I... I don't really have a stable phone number." Stiles stuttered out, trying to stop whatever was just building between them from dying out.

 

Peter just raised an eyebrow in response. Shit, _ cover stories Stiles _ . Keep your shit together.

 

"I'm abroad a lot, we're in international waters. They make us change our phones, or I'm in another country and need a new cell." He's rambling again. It's almost thrilling being this nervous, Stiles can't remember the last time something scared him. Can't remember when  _ someone  _ scared him.

 

"You're saying that you can't give me your number, because you're a marine." Peter is giving him a flat look, like he's not sure what Stiles is saying is a lie, but it doesn't seem plausible.

 

Stiles wracked his brain for a solution. There wasn't one. He wasn't supposed to stay in contact with Peter Hale. He wasn't even supposed to be there right that moment. And he certainly shouldn't be planning a way to make himself traceable.

 

"I have an online drop box- " he actually had about twelve, "- it's like an email address, but I can access it from new phones. If I give you the address, you can message me. Call me even if I sync a new phone to it."

 

Peter's expression is unreadable.

 

"Tyler," shit, he can't believe Peter still thinks his name is Tyler, "you're the strangest man I've ever met. You know that?"

 

Stiles just nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Holding his breath through the awkwardness of the moment. Peter doesn't move either. Stiles is a caustic mixture of relieved and miserable.

 

But then he does, and they're kissing, and it's brilliant. As long as he doesn't think about the fact that Peter doesn't know his name; but neither does Stiles really anyway. And his mother's ashes are still sitting on the coffee table, but they aren't really her ashes anyway.

 

"Fuck." Stiles whispers, as Peter puts a hand down his trousers, cupping his growing erection and bringing it to a full hardness.

 

Stiles is so incredibly glad that Peter is still topless, as it gives him access to all the miles of skin in front of him. He slips his hand over tight pectoral muscles, pebble-like nipples brushing under his hand as he goes.

 

It wasn’t a very graceful coupling, although Stiles wouldn’t want it that way. Peter gripped his thigh through his pant leg, bringing it up to his hip, so Stiles had to wrap an arm around the man’s neck to keep balance. This was exactly what Peter wanted as it allows him drag Stiles up onto the counter, all the while never stopping his intense kisses. Stiles felt like his mouth was getting fucked by Peter’s tongue, and he moans through it, sucking dutifully. He bucked his hips when Peter began stroking his cock again, and was glad he’s sober, as he can feel everything. 

 

At some point Stiles puts his hand in the salad bowl, and ends up getting white wine vinegar in Peter’s snail trail. It makes his mouth water, but Peter was more interested in keeping their bodies close and his lips on Stiles’ to make room for blowjobs.

 

Stiles was trying to insinuate his hand into Peter’s underwear, and Peter had to pin him to the counter. “Keeping you still is impossible.” He growled, and Stiles sighs at the truth of it, but goes limp as Peter starts rubbing his thumb at the sensitive ridge of his cock. Peter clearly has a thing for trapping him against surfaces (walls, couch cushions) but Stiles can’t really complain as he felt the man’s cock hot and impatient up against his own. 

 

A mixture of writhing frottage and Peter jerking them gets him off, and he cums messily in Peter’s hand. The man hissed in pleasure at the added slick, still jerking Stiles’ cock as he neared his own orgasm. Stiles can do nothing but squirm under Peter in the over sensation.  _ Don’t attack him, don’t hurt him, you can take the stimulation, you don’t need to lash out _ . And sighed in content as Peter pushes up his shirt and cums over his trembling abs. The cum is hot like a brand, and mars the martyr's curse he has inked on his flesh. 

 

Peter was now just leaning over him. He hand warm and damp by Stiles’ temple on the counter. He panted noisily, unseeing but staring into Stiles’ eyes all the same. Stiles felt looked into instead of at. To break the intensity he insinuated a hand away from them and into the pot of cream cheese. He scooped some out and eats it with a grin. 

 

Peter snorted, kissing the taste of Stiles lips and finally giving them some space.

 

“That was fun.” Stiles smiled, thinking about whether his shirt will survive a home washing machine or whether he should commit to getting it dried cleaned. Stiles hated ruining his clothes.

 

“Mmmh, a good remedy for a carby breakfast.”

 

“Is that all I am to you?” Stiles asks with a grin, grabbing a serviette to wipe off his sticky presents. 

 

“No, you also make the place look classy. It’s good feng shui.”

 

"I aim to serve."

 

Stiles doesn't have any clothes in his bag. He hadn't planned to take anything from his apartment, he had a number for an agency who would clear your apartment in an hour. Everything going to charity or second hand sellers, paid in cash. No receipts, as they kept the profit.  _ Stiles had planned to call them today _ . He put it off.

 

"I'm going to grab a shower at my place," he said with a smile. Shrugging out of his shirt that was crumpled from sleep and sweat.

 

"Can I come?" Peter's tone was lighthearted, but there's a challenge in his eye.

 

"... _ Peter. _ " Stiles said, tired already from their roller coasters.

 

Peter cuts him off with a kiss, "it's fine Tyler. I get it, international man of mystery and what not."

 

"I'm not a bloody assassin." Stiles grumbled, glad all the same that Peter hadn't pushed the issue.

 

"You gonna' come back?" Peter asks.

 

"Yeah, I wouldn't leave her here if I wasn't." Stiles says morosely.

 

Peter's eyebrows jump up, and he looks at the urn like he had forgotten about it. "Shit, yeah. Okay." He was gentler when he returned his gaze, and Stiles only felt a little guilty for using it as a trump card.

 

Stiles grabs some clothes when he's in the apartment and puts them in a bag. He doesn't really have any plans on what he's doing: his life is terrifying like that at the moment.  _ When's your next job? When will you call your handler? When are you going to break this thing off with Peter?  _ It was easier to just pick some of his more Alex-or-Tyler-esque clothes, and a handful of underwear.

 

When he knocks on the door again Peter is also showered and changed. A deep blue shirt over some near black jeans. It's a good look on him. Stiles wants to put his hands all over it so it looks less smooth and smart.

 

"You want to give me that email now?" Peter asked with smile.

 

"Sure, but I've not got a phone to sync it too."

 

"You weren't kidding when you said you didn't have a stable phone. How do you keep track of all your friends?"

 

_ I don't have any. _

 

"Most of my friends are marines these days, and no one ever really forgets their home phone number."  _ Shit, _ Stiles really shouldn't be opening this can of worms.

 

"We can go out and pick you up a phone if you want."

 

It was a good idea, Stiles needed one. Desperately needed to start making some calls before he was declared dead or something. Although you probably need to be declared alive for that to happen, and Stiles was 99% certain that his American identity has a death certificate and an empty coffin attached to it. He hoped it was empty, but it wouldn't be the first time the United States Government procured a body to fake a death.

 

Stiles liked the idea of keeping all this nonsense in one place however. Safely behind a closed door. Contained before it could spiral out of control. It would be the safest decision to make in this mess.

 

"Sure, do you need any groceries?"

 

Stiles couldn't help but make bad decisions apparently.

 

* * *

  
  


Everything fell apart quite quickly. 

 

An improvised security checkpoint stopped them on the way back from town. Apparently some young Mexican kids had been using stolen credit cards in the area, the FBI was here to make sure that everyone had papers. Immigration control officers hovering around the periphery. For most people it was a minor inconvenience. Stop the car, hand over your I.D. Roll your window back up, head home. 

 

Stiles still had his Alex McKenzi passport on him, but no drivers license. The problem was that his I.D said he was British, born in a little town in Dorset. They were going to want to check what visa he was on, a visiting one. A visiting one that might be linked to an operation in Belarus. And if it’s the FBI who is checking it… Fuck he hopes the CIA has tied up his loose ends. And then there was Peter, who thought his name was Tyler.  _ My friends call me Tyler.  _ It was all getting more complicated by the minute. 

 

Peter handed over his driver's license cheerfully, unperturbed. The ageing officer looked almost apologetic when he said he’d need Stiles’ too.  _ Shit.  _ Stiles slipped the passport out of his back pocket, leaning over Peter so he can place it securely in the man's hand.

 

The officer apparently was not up to date with his technology, and scrabbled around with his camera. He was trying, and failing, to take a photo of the passport details. Stiles watched Peter carefully. Trying to determine if Peter was about to offer the man help, but thankfully he appeared happy to wait.

 

When it was finally done the man passed it back through the window, Peter taking the closed booklet but handing it straight to Stiles. Not thinking to even peep inside.

 

Everything was okay. They began driving off, waiting their turn to exit the impromptu security gate. 

 

_ Fourth in line. _

 

"Do you have much work to do?"

 

_ Third in line. _

 

"Not really, I'm off tour. I'm looking forward to kicking back and relaxing."

 

_ Second in line. _

 

"I've got to write a few thousand words by Friday, so I'll work on that for a while."

 

_ At the gate. _

 

"That's cool, I can make-"

 

" **-get out of the vehicle slowly.** "

 

Stiles couldn't bring himself to look at Peter's face when he was being dragged out of the car, cuffs already securing his wrists.

 

"I'll call you later and explain everything."

 

Stiles' voice is steady and unperturbed… antithetical to how his heart is racing.  _ He’s going to lose Peter now, he was stupid to think it would end any other way.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers - Warnings:  
> Hand jobs and graphic non penetrative sex.   
> Lying to your partner. Stiles gets arrested.
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> There you go!  
> I hope you enjoy the update, it's a little bit of an in-between chapter, but I like it all the same.
> 
>  
> 
> Kudos & comments help writers feel like their life has meaning. (:


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look behind the espionage curtail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've got a few fics going right now that has Stiles being a bit quiet and at times a bit pathetic, so going back to a fic where Stiles is clearly a BAMF has been some good stress relief. I totally geeked out and focused on my one true love: spy things. 
> 
> For me this is definitely not a filler chapter, in fact it probably adds some of the detail missing from other chapters and answers some questions everyone has had, but there will be more on screen Peter again soon.
> 
> Detailed warnings at the end.

## There’s a difference between bending and breaking; but sometimes it hurts the same.

 

Stiles’ poker face was intact when the two young detectives steered him towards a black unmarked van. Destination: probably the FBI. CIA if he’s lucky. He's not scared of this, he's been arrested hundreds of times on U.S soil. Stiles knows the procedure:

 

  * _Don't speak to anyone,_ just ask for your handler.



 

  * _Don't run from cops, tell them if you have a gun. The American police are one of the most triggerhappy police forces in the world, it's best to stay passive._



 

  * _Don't tell anyone anything._ Just ask for your handler. _Keep asking for your handler. If you need to, tell them he's your lawyer._



 

  * _Memorise the names and numbers of every person you come into contact with. So the CIA can do clean up later. So they'll know whose files to take, and which police notepads to incinerate._



 

  * _If after twelve hours they haven't brought your handler to you, write out your Miranda rights in every language you know._



 

  * _If after twenty-four hours they haven't brought your handler, write out your personal s.o.s phone number. They will nearly always call it, and alert your handler incidentally._



 

  * _If after thirty-eight hours if they haven't brought your handler,_ _write out your final will and testament._



 

Stiles has only gotten to that final stage twice when in custody by an American police department. One of those times was actually by the CIA itself. Stiles would never be wholly certain whether it was all an elaborate training exercise by his own handler in attempt to see if he was still on top of his game. There was no limit on their attempts to show him who's _really_ boss.

 

When you're arrested by a different country’s government there's no point following the procedure though. You're getting out via money, violence or fake intel. Your best bet is use a different alias, play it Russian. The Kremlin has enough sleeper agents that you'll fall asleep in some pokey Cuban cell and wake up being slapped across the face by a fierce Russian woman. Never play Russian in the U.S or Ukraine though.

 

Stiles had written out his Miranda rights in English, Polish, Mandarin and Greek when he's dragged out of the room. His cuffs are unlocked, but then someone else has gripped his upper arm painfully and pulls him into an empty office in the J. Edgar Hoover building.

 

"What the _fuck_ have you been doing Søren?"

 

"I told you to stop calling me that," Stiles spat back, scowling at his companion. Itching to punch the man in the face.

 

"I don't give a shit. Where have you been? Why aren't you in India?"

 

"I had business to do here." Stiles was really starting to regret not calling in when he touched down. He tries to not let that show on his face however.

 

"I don't give a rats ass if you had business here. That was a CIA booked flight. I had agents ready to fucking debrief you _Søren_."

 

"Since when do I need standard debriefs? _Rafael_."

 

Agent McCall looked like he was ready to slap him.

 

"What does Karla know?"

 

Stiles rolled his eyes at his handler's cliched moniker for the Kremlin. The man had genuinely read one to many _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_ novels.

 

"Nothing, it's not about that... It was personal."

 

Rafael slapped him. Hard enough that the skin of his cheek broke against his teeth. Stiles responded by spitting blood at the man's feet.

 

"If you're fucking lying to me Søren."

 

"Will you fuck off. I'm not lying, I just made a bit of a mess putting down an old identity and flew home to tie it up."

 

"On the McKenzi alias?" Stiles winced, he knew it was stupid of him to burn that.

 

"It was all I had on me. Maybe if you hadn't given me a fucking Laotian passport that couldn’t even get me to Panama." He spits back.

 

Rafael looked a bit calmer now, now he knew he was in control and Stiles wasn't running circles around him. The man was a fucking control freak. _No wonder you're divorced._

 

"You know that was some pissing monkey in analytics, if it was me I would have had you in Iraq for a debrief."

 

Stiles shrugged. It was true, things were easier when Rafael organised them. Easier and worse. Rafael would happily play fast and loose with Stiles’ safety if he was getting results, but he never sent him on day trips just to please analytics. _We're down 3% on Laos passports this year, randomly assign someone the identity._ He at least trusted Stiles to source and carry his own i.d.

 

"You look like shit." Rafael told him, pulling out an arm to check his tracks. They were all dead, he hadn't used in months.

 

"Well I got arrested whilst grocery shopping, and then locked in a windowless room for fifteen hours - _ouch_ \- fuck off."

 

"Do I need to check your knees?"

 

"Fuck off, I'm just jet lagged and tired-" _and sweating because I don't know what I'm going to say to Peter._

 

Rafael took his jaw in hand and forced them to make eye contact. "Do - I need - to check - your knees?"

 

Stiles let out a deep breath and looked the man in the eye properly, "No I haven't been using, so fuck off, alright?"

 

Rafael had been the one that gave him heroin that first time. Stiles had been young, too young, and had just been shot for first time in some shit hole of an Eastern Europe country. Turns out Rafael had put him on an illegal op. just three hours previous, and now he had a dying teenager on his hands and no proper paperwork to get him back on U.S. soil. Heroin was always easier to get hold of than pure morphine, and Stiles had been shot up through a shitty Czechoslovakian mob doctor taking out the shattered bullet in his gut. Funny thing about heroin though, it was addictive and fucking everywhere.

 

Stiles had learned a lot of things about being an agent that day, the first being that Rafael was going to get him killed but would probably be the only person trying to save his life anyway.

 

“Well this has well and truly fucked up everything.” Rafael spat, disgusted but back to his usual level of being a dickhead. He got out his briefcase and shoved some paperwork for Stiles to sign. “Start with this, you might as well put the actual flight you took since I had to use the mainframe’s flight manifestos to flag your alias so head office knows anyway.” Stiles winced, this was probably going to be a lot of paperwork, which meant that Rafael was going to be twice as pissy at him. “Did you at least burn the Laos passport?”

 

Stiles grunted, suddenly shattered and coming down off the adrenaline high. It pissed him off that he felt safer with Rafael than anyone else, but there was a mindlessness to it. Now he was back in the system for an extended period of him, Rafael would make choices about what would happen next and until then he was off the clock. He knew the man probably wanted to shove him in a safe house of his own choosing, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think Stiles would stay there.

 

They passed pieces of paper back and forth, Rafael disagreeing at one point with something Stiles had written and getting out a lighter and burning the whole thing, before giving him a fresh copy to start again with. It only takes an hour to get bones of a half made up operation brief and debrief written all the same, Rafael would sort the rest and embellish with whatever details he could get away with at another time. Lying this off hand to the CIA wasn’t easy at the best of times, but Stiles trusted that Rafael had years of practice.

 

“Go back to base, get a physical. Sleep in one of the day rooms - don’t leave until I get there.”

 

Stiles nodded, “I’m not going to pass a piss test.” Rafael rolled his eyes and looked like he was about to pull down Stiles’ trousers himself to check his knees, before getting out a Ext.Cir.45G form from his briefcase. They’d done this routine enough times though that most of the details were already filled in he just had to sign and date it.

 

“Did you take anything note worthy?”

 

Stiles shook his head, it was practically mundane. “Actually, I finally took that ket you bought me in ‘07”.

 

Rafael snorted and finished the form, shoving it in envelope and sealing it with official governmental tape. “I bought you that for your birthday.”

 

“You mean the op. that took place during the week of my birthday.”

 

Rafael smirked at him, “At least it was memorable.”

 

* * *

 

 

He was trapped on base for nearly thirty hours before Rafael came and got him and allowed him back into the wild. Stiles knew that the man was dragging it out in a passive aggressive statement of his ability to control Stiles’ life, but it wasn’t the worst lock down he’d ever endured… The problem of Peter wasn’t going to get any easier if he saw him in four hours time or forty, either way he had to work out how to explain why Peter watched him getting arrested by the FBI at 2pm on a Sunday.

 

Stiles spent less time on base than any other active agent, even those deep undercover. His debriefs nearly always took place off soil - if they took place at all - and Rafael never spoke about anything on base because he was a paranoid asshole which probably made him an excellent agent. Stiles didn’t really know what kind of clearance he had in this place, as any information about his ‘own’ government was either leaked to him by Rafael or he had to do it the old fashioned way and steal it. Walking through the halls, watching interns older than him fetch coffee, Stiles wondered how many of them had lost their jobs because of him: their slip ups and his gain.

 

The nurse who was checking him over passed him a cup, the man obviously hadn’t read the paperwork yet. “I’m not doing it.”

 

The man looks like he’s about to argue before the actual doctor in the room who was looking at an x-ray of Stiles’ ribs ( _neat, nearly all healed then_ ) interrupted. “He’ll have an Extenuating Circumstances form.”

 

“It’s not here.” Said the nurse, still holding the cup out to Stiles.

 

The doctor turned around to look at him, she had a plain face but pretty blonde hair scraped back into a bun. “He’ll have one. Check the inbox at reception.”

 

Stiles smiled at her, although didn’t expect much of a response. She’d done this enough times, Stiles coming in and having all the paperwork to just walk back out again with next to nothing on file, that they were clearly on the same page.

 

“Okay.” The nurse grumbled. _Another missed chance at a friend then, no real loss._

 

It happened everywhere on base, and once upon a time Stiles cared about things like appearing arrogant or not fitting in. Now it was just a weird twilight zone buffer he existed in whenever he was there. He didn’t talk to anyone without Rafael present, didn’t have to sign anything or put anything on record, and none of the regular restrictions applied to him.

 

One time he was on base during a fire alarm. Rafael had put him on lockdown three hours previous and had yet to declare him mobile again, sixteen different people had tried to make him leave facing increasingly higher levels of paperwork that counteracted it. Finally the director of the building walked in declaring this was 'bureaucracy gone mad' and that he was over ruling everything to get Stiles out... Before he received a call from the Pentagon for breaching protocol.

 

Stiles was left in a building thinking that if there really was a fire then at least his death would be infamous to the CIA instead of cheap shot in the back of the head he’ll probably receive otherwise. They lost two conference rooms and a computer suite, but luckily Stiles didn’t even get smoke inhalation. Amusingly Rafael had been pretty proud at Stiles passivity over the situation. But he was twisted fuck.

 

“Pick up a burner phone, and ring that number tomorrow.” Rafael told him back in his car, he was organising their personal debrief. Where Stiles gave him all the details of what was actually going on. _Or more importantly, where Stiles told Rafael only what he needed to know about what was going on and nothing more. It was a crazy as shit game they were all playing._

 

“Will it be instate?”

 

“No.”

 

Stiles sighed, “Then I’ll need a car, a clean license and cash.”

 

Rafael opened a glove box and handed him a key with a number on it. “You can use that. Leave the weapons.”

 

“I’m not crossing state lines unarmed.”

 

“Then pick up your own fucking guns. Leave them.”

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose, “Are you handing me a dirty identity?”

 

“The cards are clean. The guns might not be.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Did one of your other pet projects kill someone legal again?” _It was a tacky term, all deaths were illegal. But until you got caught doing them it didn’t really matter._

 

Rafael scowled. Stiles knew there were others like him, in a strange loophole of espionage covertly working against their own country in said country’s benefit. He just didn’t know who they were, but it wasn’t a secret to him that barely any of them worked out as well. “Retired in under a year, _again_.” Rafael growled.

 

Stiles smirked. It was depressing as fuck that most people couldn’t hack his job, but he might as well be smug about it. "Maybe you're losing your edge." His smile was all teeth when he caught Rafael's death glare in the mirror.

 

"Maybe I just need to find more people with inbuilt death wishes." Rafael smiled back at him.

 

Stiles shrugged like it didn't matter, like Rafael wasn't the one who taught him that. Like he hadn't been shipped to Russia to be made into a perfect double agent by the very man teasing him. "That was the easy bit." The not caring if you die was the easy bit, the getting up again when it turns out you didn't die but did cause yourself a disgusting amount of damage: that was the hard bit.

 

When he's released wild again he goes straight to pick up the cards. There was a fair wad of cash in there too, but he doesn't need it thanks to the functioning plastic, and the bills could be traced. Sliding on some gloves he poked about at the guns. There's some white powder in the crease of the casing, suggesting they've been someone near cocaine. Not clean then. He leaves them in the locker, dropping the keys in a river as he drives over a bridge towards a hotel.

 

Stiles could possibly make it to Peter's right now. Maybe. He wouldn't know how long he would have until he'd need to pack up again and meet Rafael in some covert corner. Thinking about it Stiles was just sitting in his car right outside the valet of the Hilton Hotel in Woodbridge - only two hours out from Langley where the CIA base was situated - trying to come to a decision of what to do next. THe and Peter hadn't even started using their idiotically suggested email based communication system, so he had no means to contact Peter otherwise. Not that he wanted any of their conversations traceable, it was bad enough that Stiles still hadn't burnt the fucking apartment that had now been compromised twice. _Death wish, more like impulsively stupid._

 

Another night wouldn't make any difference, he pushes down on the gas and pulls up to the valet.

 

* * *

 

 

"I need an alias in the navy, something that to an outside observer looks top secret." In the end he does the only thing he can really do with any of his problems, which is get on his knees and beg Rafael for help, as subtly as possible, and hope he doesn't get cock slapped over it. "I need the name Tyler in it somewhere."

 

Rafael had just recorded their whole conversation on a old fashioned tape dictaphone ( _the man trusts nothing digital_ ) and was augmenting his notes in his own coded script. Stiles can read it with ease, much to Rafael's chagrin, but six years of staring at someone's notes from upside when you're a master Russian cryptographer doesn't make it hard. "Also Tekali isn't outside Tbilisi, it's near the Armenian border." Rafael growled at him, hesitated striking out what he wrote to confirm Stiles flawless translation, before rolling his eyes and doing it anyway.

 

"Why Tyler?"

 

Stiles chewed his cheek between his molars, it was an easy tell that he had drummed out of himself for real but it was good to let Rafael think that he was still vulnerable to being read. "If I told you I just liked the name would you leave it there?" At the very least their conversation was less explosive than the one they had had the day previous.

 

"Depends, are you going to travel out the country with this name?"

 

"No."

 

"Are you going to send anything to Karla with this name?"

 

"No."

 

"Are you going to fuck your neighbour in Arizona with this name?"

 

 _Busted_. "Probably, depends how flexible I'm feeling."

 

Rafael rolled his eyes. "I have scheduled a finite amount of patience about that shit show you've got going on right now. You've used up almost a quarter of it."

 

Stiles affected a look of being put out, but to be brutally honest he was expecting a lot more blow back. "Can you get me dog tags?"

 

"Why do you need dog tags?"

 

 _Because I really want Peter to believe me and not hate me for this._ "Because who doesn't want to fuck a twink in dog tags?"

 

Rafael snorts, a dry smirk pulled onto his face. "I don't think men who can kill three Nigerian soldiers with a broken gauge needle can call themselves twinks." Once upon a time Stiles had used the topic of sex - particularly gay sex - aggressively to throw Rafael off his game, it had worked, until it didn't. Now he was mostly off drugs he instead used the topic of narcotics to distract his handler, but it was always risky to push it too far, lest Stiles falls off again and needs to find something to distract Rafael from the drugs themselves.

 

Stiles was about to tell him _exactly_ which parameters were required to be defined as a twink when the little console on the table between them goes blue. Someone in a five miles radius of their location had a mobile phone on, the secretive conversation was over. They leave the abandoned diner that Rafael had picked for their illicit meeting and pile into the car, Rafael driving Stiles to where he parked his rental.

 

"Here." He pulled a key out the glove box.

 

"What's in it?"

 

"Nothing right now, in two days there will be your new i.d."

 

Stiles tried very hard not to crack a smile, mostly in case Rafael thinks it was for him. "Cool."

 

"You're off books for the next two months," It was a lie, Stiles had just been told his next assignments by Rafael in the diner. Moments like this made Stiles feel like Rafael had bugged his own fucking car just for the inanity of it. "Do you have any plans?"

 

Between what he'd just been given, his own ground work he would need to build up, and the fact he was going to have to go through this whole process again with _Karla_ sometime soon, Stiles had little to no time. He might be able to squeeze in a week with Peter, _if the man will see him_ , if he’s lucky. The only upside was that he'll be skipping back onto U.S soil as much as possible to keep Rafael updated so hopefully there would be days in between. _This all depends on whether he ever sees Peter again, maybe he’d prefer to stay out the country and away from temptation._

 

Stiles smiled his shit eating grin, "You know me. With two months off I'm gonna' vacation. Hit the beaches, the sun. Maybe pick up some chicks in some hot climate country."

 

Rafael smiled back at him, "Well, I do know what you're like with the ladies."

 

If Rafael was recording this, Stiles hoped he got a good laugh out of it the second time around.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles drove all the way to Nashville airport, Tennessee, before he chickens out about flying to Arizona. The sensible thing to do would be to get a flight anyway to somewhere with a stocked safe house to begin rebuilding his identity network while in the U.S again, but doing that would admit he’s not going to see Peter. It feels like a catch 22. Since he’s still being tracked by the CIA and it’ll take a few days before he’s able to go under the wire, but to be fair it’s clear that Rafael already knows about his _indiscretions_  so it wouldn’t matter if he went to see Peter anyway, but he still didn’t want to. _He did want to, but also not._

 

“I should decide to never see him again.” Stiles told his reflection in the little car mirror. He can’t though, even if he wanted to. He needs to get his mother’s ashes. _Would breaking into Peter’s apartment and taking them be a better idea?_ The very thought made him feel sick, Peter wondering what happened to them… Working it out that Stiles broke in and took them without talking to him. He shouldn’t care, he’d hurt a lot of people in his life. If Stiles was to be honest, the idea of hurting Peter doesn’t even matter, it was the thought that Stiles wouldn’t be able to wheedle himself back into someone’s life after that. Maybe with blackmail, or another bottle of Propofol, anything that would get a _job_ done he could do. But the genuine intimacy he had somehow created? That stuff was fragile, you break it and it’s gone.

 

“This is such a fucking mess, I’m off my game.” Stiles had a gruelling few months in front of him, his life was always easier when he was given a longer leash from the CIA or Karla, but as soon as he got close to one, the other would start making grabby little hands at his person. Maybe Peter was his emotional breakdown he hadn’t had like all those other ‘pet projects’ Rafael collected and broken within a year. It was preferable to ending up in jail, dead in a river, or worst, being retired. _Stiles had yet to really find out what happens when an agent is retired, for now he wasn’t interested in knowing_.

 

“I deserve a freak out.” Stiles said to himself, putting his car in reverse and heading to the closest hotel to the airport. When trying to stay under the line he normally had to make do with hotels that took cash only and didn’t register i.ds but since he was using an i.d Rafael had made for him Stiles decided to treat himself to something with a pool. Seventy-four laps before bed would hopefully help him come to a decision about the next few weeks of his life.

  
That or he’d see someone hot enough to pick up and fuck in his stupidly expensive hotel room paid for with legitimate CIA plastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> Reference to police violence. Not-healthy relationship between Rafael and Stiles (lolol understatement though)  
> Reference to giving drugs to a minor. Reference to violence.
> 
> \---------------
> 
> I mean, part of me considered a Rafa/Stiles sidepairing, but this doesn't really feel like that kinda' fic?? Their relationship is clearly fucked though. (Feel free to tell me in the comments).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Please do comment & kudos, it helps writers feel like all this energy into fic writing is worth it.


	4. Going Legit With Six Lies In Your Mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see notes at end - warning, this has barely been proofed.

 1. 

  
Stiles knocked on the door. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would find on the other side, but he knocks anyway. He’d done many things scarier than this in his life, this was just a door, just a guy, just a casual fuck that Stiles had accidentally put some of his hopes for the future, of being normally, into.  _Okay, this is getting ridiculous, I need to just knock._ He knocks on the door again, louder this time. 

He doesn’t hear anything for a moment and Stiles thinks that maybe Peter is out. Maybe he should have planned this better - Stiles has always been a planner -and checked in on Peter first using less than legitimate ways. But it felt more honest like this, like he wasn’t intruding or betraying Peter more than he had to. Like he was offering Peter the only version of the truth he could in this world. 

The door opened, "Oh."

It was Peter, it was Peter and there was a guy sitting in his kitchen behind him. In the kitchen that Stiles can still remember being  _pushed down on_ while they fucked over beigels and cream cheese. "Oh," Stiles echoed back at him, "I... Didn't consider the fact you might have company."

The man in the kitchen was about Peter's age, although showing the markers of age more clearly. He was handsome, different from Peter, let's defined and more wire-y, but attractive all the same. Stiles felt young all of a sudden, a strange thing to feel. Stiles was wearing a nice suit, a crisp slate shirt to complement the deep blue waistcoat. It was disgustingly expensive without being flashy, and thus less likely to attract attention. Stiles wore these suits like body armour, as a way to mask his true age, as a way to hide the scars and burn marks that lay underneath. Normally it worked, Stiles had conned his way into foreign embassy's with these suits, and blagged his way out of countries relying on the perfect fold of his pocket square. At that moment however he felt like a kid at his first interview,  _why have to endowed all this significance to this one man? It makes no sense, it's lazy, it's a point of vulnerability, you don't even know him, you just like the idea of him. The idea of you, and that flat, and that stupid fucking wolf sanctuary._

"Quite." There was dead silence between the three of them, the man in the kitchen seemed to be enjoying himself however, it annoyed Stiles. Like everyone else in the room held more cards that him. Peter let out a sigh, "Chris, I'll call you later."

Stiles tried to not too obviously track the reaction on 'Chris's face, the man did not look put out however, in fact under the layers of gristle, he almost looked like he was enjoying the whole thing. "All right."

There was more stilted silence while Chris grabbed his things, pulled on his coat and headed towards the door. There was an awkward moment when all three of them were but a metre away from one another as Chris slipped out, and the weight of it all made Stiles feel sure that the whole corridor is going to combust. Finally when they are alone Peter looks at him properly. "You coming in?"

Stiles nodded, grateful for the second time that Peter was not going to force him to do this without the safety of closed doors.

"So, what, it's been a week?" Peter said casually, heading to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. Stiles noticed that he was not offered one this time around.

"Six days, well... Since I was you know..."

"Dragged off by the feds? Yeah, I noticed that. Funny, I seem to remember you saying you'll explain."

Stiles flicks his eyes to Peter, "Well... I'm here."

"A week later."

"A week later, and I can explain.... Some of it."

"Some of it, you don't think I deserve all of it?" Peter put down his glass a little too purposefully at that, sloshing some of the water onto the counter. The implicit aggression in it puts Stiles' back up, he specifically didn't bring any weapons this time. And he isn't  _scared_ of Peter, just that the feeling of being vulnerable and unarmed when someone else's mood is going sour is never something he has liked.  _One too many nights in a Russian cell._

"You probably do deserve it all. But I can't give it to you." It was the best Stiles could do, that was what he had been agonising over this whole time. How much he should lie, which truths he should push, what he could get away with. None of it worked, if he was going to try and see Peter again, he had to be honest about his lack of honesty. It was the most sincere thing he could offer the man.

Peter paused, before grabbing a kitchen cloth and wiping down the now damp counter. "You can't give it to me."

"No."

"So why are you here?"

"Well.."  _what a question, what was he doing here,_ "I guess I needed to pick up the urn. You do still have it, right?"

"Obviously, I'm not a monster."

"Cool, thanks. Well yeah, to get the urn... And I guess maybe to ask if you wanted to see me again."

Peter gave him a look like Stiles had just suggested they try scaling the building. "You're saying you're not going to give me any answers, or tell me the truth that I  _so clearly deserve,_ but you want to see me again anyway."

It sounded more stupid now Stiles had to hear someone say it out loud. Stiles shrugged, it was all he could do, "I wasn't expecting you to say yes, I just thought I'd put it out there."

Peter scrutinised his face for a while, looking for something. Maybe he expected Stiles to crack a grin and say  _just kidding, let me explain,_ or maybe he was looking for some kind of head wound.  _Stiles had definitely been smacked around the head in the past week, that's what you get when you source your new id's in downtown Chicago._ Finally he put down the cloth and came around the kitchen counter, squaring up to Stiles.

He felt small, it was a weird thing that Peter made him feel. Small, and cast adrift. Like it would be easier to just put his head on Peter's shoulder and  _go home._

_Go home to where?_

Peter put a hand on Stiles' jaw. "What do you mean go home?"

"Oh... Shit, I think I'm more tired than I thought."

"Where is home?"

"No where really."

"Where's your... I don't know, you dad?" 

_my dad who buried his son and wife five years ago... buried them knowing he could never tell anyone that they were empty caskets._

"He's... No where."

"Doesn't it get tiring sometimes? All this running around, surely everyone needs somewhere to just be themselves. Someone to trust." Stiles can feel his stomach twist over itself, Rafael's face flitters into his head. And how fucking depressing is that, that the only person in the world he has who  _knows_ him, is the one most likely to get him killed. It's scary though, Peter is saying all the right things. Everything about him is engineered to get under Stiles' skin, if Peter really is a Russian agent, or fuck it, maybe even some other country's assets, either trying to get at Stiles' intel on the US or the Kremlin, he'd be perfect. Because Stiles was faltering, he was tired, he was too many years into this job, and he didn't know if he could keep going. And it didn't help that Rafael knew it, Rafael could see it, was tolerating this little dalliance Stiles was living out because it wouldn't matter soon, it wouldn't matter because soon Stiles was going to be put on some kind of mission that he wasn't going to come back from.  _Come back where? Come back to where? Where was home Stiles?_

"Don't ask me to trust you, please don't... Cause I can't, I won't, I never will... I just.." _What the fuck did he want anyway_ , "I just wanted to come see you. Is that really such an awful thing?" It was the most honest admission Stiles had said to anyone in years.

"No, it's not such an awful thing." 

Stiles only realised he was crying when he could taste to the salt on his lips from Peter's kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you haven't seen from my other posts/fics, I am actually leaving fandom.  
> I will however be uploading all the fic I have already written & I won't be deleting any of the stories I already have up.
> 
> In regard to this fic, I have like, 6 'snap shots' (this was the first) left that I have written, they were in very rough note form, so I'm going to clean them up and post them. & then I'll give you a little authors note at the end regarding what I had planned to do with this fic in the future if any of you are still curious.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who followed this fic/any of my fics, you're all amazing, and I am grateful for the time we spent together.


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